


it's bad enough we get along so well

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Emotional bonding, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, Pining, Pining Clarke, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, coworkers to friends to lover, doctor!clarke, hospital fic, ive run out of ways to say they fall in love and fck, nurse!bellamy, or historic au since the 666 takes place in the futero, overprotective bellamy, what in wakanda is this summary tho, whats a blarke fic without emotional bonding, yeah a safeandsound13 fic with smut im developing as a writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: It's a bad idea, Clarke tells herself. They're polar opposites. They justbarelystarted getting along. Most importantly, they work together. It can't end well for either of them. Yet each night he walks her home it gets harder to say goodbye, harder for him to walk away, harder for her to close the door behind her. Somehow they both know it's only a matter of time.





	it's bad enough we get along so well

**Author's Note:**

> y'all must think im a full fledged areola stan w the way ive been popping out fics based on her songs left and right but dont get mistaken we all know the only cracker i wholeheartedly stan is miss t.a. swift and thats final
> 
> i know zero about how the american healthcare system works (except that it's not free for everyone or summ?? that's so wild ppl) so this is mostly based off my own non-america experiences and like 9 seasons of greys (hashtag nurses exist bitch) and 2 of the good doctor but we can all just pretend this is a parallel universe modern hospital au that takes place in some weird conglomeration of cities that i also made up. also: my first try at writing actual smut im growing as a person i think? the take away message is to not take it too seriously, you know, like how the ceedoubleyou doesn't take this shit show seriously enough to promote it cheers
> 
> anyway please enjoy and let me know what you think GON AZEGEDAAAAAAAAA

/.\

He starts walking her home passive-aggressively at first.

After her shift Monty, her favorite lab-tech, is asking her out for drinks in their co-ed locker room while they change into their regular clothes. Which sounds like borderline sexual harassment if you put it like that, but he's about the best person she knows and he's asking her in a friendly, non-threatening way to come along to a bar that's across the street with him and his girlfriend. Which, again, he's nice, it would be nice, a  _drink_  would be nice to relief some of the stress, but she's tired and looks like a mess and she's been looking forward to having a good night's sleep all month. All year, maybe. Possibly since med-school.

So while collecting her blonde hair from the back of her henley, an obvious attempt at trying to draw some time to come up with a suitable rejection, Clarke stares at him for a beat trying to think of an excuse that sounds less pathetic than ' _I have some movies lined up on Netflix that I've been dying to live-tweet_ '. Harder than it seems after a grueling twelve hour shift in the ER, she can tell you that much.

"Is this about Harper?" Monty looks up at her from the bench he's sitting on sideways, one foot propped up so he can tie the laces of his beat-up converse, his eyebrows raised in a way that conveys he's wholeheartedly unimpressed.

"It's  _not_ ," she shoots back quickly, and she means it too. Harper is easily one of her favorite nurses; super empathetic, advocates for her patients like no other and if Clarke ever needs help lifting a patient Harper, her sixpack and both of her literal popeye biceps are there to help her out like no other nurse can. "I don't have a problem with her."

He doesn't budge, lowering his foot so he can focus all his energy on judging her. "But you think she has a problem with you?"

Clarke turns to take her dad's watch off the top shelf of her locker, and starts putting it around her wrist, anything to not have to look at him. Harper's his girlfriend. It's kind of awkward. "A little?" She offers, looking over at him over her shoulder finally with a regretful expression on her face. She lowers her voice for the next part, just in case one of them happens to still be changing. "You know how nurses are with one another."

You have beef with one of them, and suddenly they stop laughing conspiratorially whenever you make direct eye-contact and the cupcakes go into hiding at the nursing station whenever you're around. And Clarke, she had picked the alpha of the pack to go to combat with on her first official day as a resident. The ER nurses didn't openly dislike her, but they made it blatantly known she wasn't one of them.

(To make matters worse most of the doctors started siding with her even though she didn't ask them to and it turned into a full on turf war for a few months. Lunchtime segregation was a thing for a while there. So much cattiness, so much.)

"It's been six months, Clarke," he smiles, amused, lifting his bag into his shoulder after he rises onto his feet. "I don't think she still holds a grudge over one argument you had with her co-worker like forever ago."

Clarke just hums non-committedly as she starts pulling her jacket off the hanger. They both know there's a difference between their professional and personal lives. Harper would never do anything to endanger one of their patients, but that didn't mean she wanted to get cocktails with her and discuss favorite Bachelor contestants.

Monty closes his locker and starts walking backwards towards the exit, pointing his thumb at her from where his hand is wrapped around the strap of his bag, criss-crossed across his torso. "You okay getting home?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Clarke tells him, with a half-hearted eye-roll, shrugging into her jacket. "It's just a ten minute walk to my place."

She used to take the bus but then they cancelled the route along her house, traffic is too much of a nightmare for her to drive herself and since about half of her trauma patients in the ER are cyclists, she figured she might as well walk. And it's not bad; the fresh air helps clear her head, and the isolation weirdly helps her process the events of the day in a healthy, non-binge eating way.

He halts to a stop, raising his eyebrows worriedly as he starts to move closer to her again. Almost mortified, he inquires, "You sure?"

"I'm  _sure_ ," Clarke laughs, fond, pushing him away from her playfully and waving him off. She literally lives six blocks away, it'll be fine. "Please just go. Have fun. Get drunk with your girlfriend."

He takes one more unconvinced look at her, and when she musters together a somewhat believable glare he finally nods, turning on his heels as he throws a ' _have a nice weekend_ ' over his shoulder.

She shakes her head to herself as she pulls her bag out of her locker, lodging it underneath her armpit, careful not to forget her badge either, lodging that one between her teeth, as she starts to button up her jacket. Suddenly the door of her locker slams shut, revealing the object of her indifference.

"Princess." Bellamy, and his annoying way of greeting her. Leaning against the locker beside hers. Wearing a tight black t-shirt. Making his biceps look  _really_  good. So she looks away quickly. Before he gets any ideas. He has a reputation that she has no intention of getting under.

"I'm not really in the mood," she answers, short, lifting her bag onto her shoulder and clipping her badge to a belt loop on her jeans. If he's looking for an argument, she's ready like always. She's just not sure it would end well.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he starts, completely ignoring her, following her as she brushes past him into the sterile white hallways. He's such an insufferable ass.

"What part?" Clarke demands, just to humour him, voice laced with cynicism. She and Monty came into the locker room originally discussing gene therapy and even dove into why the power rangers reboot flopped when it made both of them cry there for a second, so he's gonna have to be a bit more specific what he's going to yell at her about this time.

"The part about how you know how nurses are," he remarks, dry, finally managing to catch up with her, arm brushing hers for just a second.

"I didn't mean it in a negative way, if that's what you think," Clarke retorts, wrapping her arms around her torso, not even sure why she feels the need to defend herself. It's not like she's been able to change his mind before. "I know you all have each other's backs. You're loyal. It's a good thing."

"I know," Bellamy admits, surprisingly soft, surprisingly unlike hime, surprising her. She makes the mistake of glancing over at him — noticing the specks of gold in his brown eyes all of a sudden, like she hasn't  _really_  seen them right all this time — then quickly looks back ahead, shoulders ramrod straight. She's always known he was attractive though, might've decided it was part of the problem.

The blonde collects herself, cold air cooling her skin immediately as they step outside. The fresh air is nice though, after breathing in diseases all day. "Then why are you following me?"

He actually has the audacity to look annoyed. "Because it's past eleven p.m. on a Friday. I obviously have to walk you home now."

He  _has_  to walk her home, huh? Is it because he has some sort of saviour complex, is he doing it for some good karma points, maybe even needs his act of random selfish kindness to feel good about himself as a person — which, understandable, he's a horrible person — or does he think she can't handle herself? Is that it? Does he think she needs him to save her? Laughable.

Each time she thinks she sees something in him beyond the dick-ish front he puts on, something good, something great even, he manages to run his mouth or do something to completely ruin it. She'd come to the point she'd given up on seeing him as anything but a dick.

One thing she does know is that he cares about her safety at least. Like the other week during rounds when one of the interns —  _Cage_  — wrongfully cried 'cholera' and Bellamy smacked a patient's vomit bag out of her hand. It was full. It must've cost him at least an hour to clean up the patient, the bed and to get him to stop hurling because of the smell of his own bodily fluids.

So he's overprotective to a fault, maybe. It's not personal. He's like that with everyone. He can be overprotective  _and_  a dick. He can have layers.

(Even though sometimes it does feel personal. Like last month when he assisted her on intubating a patient with a difficult airway, his free hand on her back the entire time, supportively, guiding her through it. When she succeeded and Wells took over to start ventilating the patient manually, she shifted to look at him over her shoulder, beaming — still high enough on adrenaline and saving a man's life to forget about their usual semi-professional antagonistic code of conduct — and he stepped back, almost flustered.

And, the other day he was so busy arguing with her about the use of constant health monitoring or something trivial like that while also making sure that he didn't break eye-contact, that he nearly walked into one of their fake plants.

There was also the time she specifically asked him to assist her with a patient after an incredibly hard shift in which she already lost two patients in a row, because, and she quotes, ' _she didn't want to be around anyone she actually liked_ '. She didn't want the small-talk, and the are you alright Clarke-talk and the trying to make her feel better-talk. But he could tell something was off, anyway, and he kept pushing until she broke down in a supply closet. He ended up hugging her for a solid two minutes until she calmed down enough to realize where she was and what she was doing.

Plus, whenever President Jaha ascends from his throne to come give them another uncalled for lecture about infection control or length of stay they exchange silent looks making fun of him. She doesn't think he does any of  _that_ with everyone.)

"You don't  _have_  to do anything," she bites back, hatefully, teeth gritted together. "As a matter of fact, I don't want you to. I don't need a babysitter."

"We work in the ER. Like half of our patients are stabbed or shot in the middle of the street for for being blonde and pretty or for no reason at all," he dismisses her, easy and firm, and she wants to protest just on principle. "I'm walking you home."

"You're not walking me home," she insists, even though he's, in fact, walking beside her while she walks home right now.

Bellamy ignores her again, continuing with that aggravatingly casual tone he uses. "Where do you live?"

"Some would say this is stalkerish behaviour," she hisses, sending him a deadly glare as she pulls her jacket tighter around herself, so tight, her knuckles turn white. "Might even call it sexual harassment?"

He doesn't say anything, just raises his eyebrows. Clarke sighs, clenching her jaw for a second as she pinches the bridge of her nose, trying her utmost best not to snap at him any further. He will only use it as fuel against her. "Six blocks away. Near that old fire station that they turned into a fancy club. The Dropship?"

"Great," he concludes, making her head snap sideways to look up at him, completely dumbfounded. "That's on the way."

"On the way where?" Clarke opposes, loud, trying to ignore the way the corners of his lips turn up in half a smirk just because he got underneath her skin. Their regular bar is literally across the street from the hospital so what the fuck is he talking about here exactly? Horrified, she adds, "Do you live near me?"

"Ha," Bellamy starts with an unattractive snort, going over into full sarcasm. "Do I live in Arkadia's most expensive neighbourhood?" He stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, lifting his eyebrows at no one in particular, and she tries not to look his way too much, but she just knows it includes an aura of disdain. "My train station is near your place."

Clarke narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Are you not getting drinks with Harper and the rest?" Her last resolve. Even though the bar is now officially farther away then her place. Still, he doesn't know that.

"Nah. I'm trying to lay off the beer. Bad for the.." He trails off, and because she knows he's mocking her, her fingernails press into the palms of her hands. She doesn't look, no thank you, but she can fill in what the cocky smirk on his face looks like. She's been on the receiving end of it more often that not. "What do they call it? The liver, I think?"

It's a lame excuse — Bellamy Blake is notorious at Arkadia University Hospital for the parties he throws, and she knows for a fact he's incapable of changing his ways — but she lets it slide. Instead, for implying she thinks he's dumb, she elbows him in the ribs, hard, then speeds up a little. The faster she walks, the sooner she's rid of him. He doesn't even make a noise.

The only reason she doesn't keep protesting the tall, dark and handsome man following her home without her consent is because even if they got off on the wrong foot, and she might hate him, and he might hate her, she still trusts him. He wouldn't hurt her and she's too tired to keep arguing when she knows the duration of the walk will be shorter than the amount of time it would take to convince Bellamy Blake he's wrong.

She decides to be civil, the bigger person if you will, and inquires, "Why don't you live closer to the hospital?" Plus, she's kind of curious about it anyway.

"Maybe you could talk your mom into raising our salaries so I can afford moving out of the Arkadian slums and into the city centre," he retorts, but when she shifts her head to gauge his facial expression and maybe glare at him, she realizes it's not one of his usual digs. He's smiling, eyes crinkled, teasing. It's a good look on him, she has to admit.

"No car?" Clarke counters next, short, hoping the conversation moving along will mean the time moving on faster as well. She's starting to think he is capable of having good looks, for god's sake, something is seriously wrong.

Without skipping a beat, he replies, "Have you seen the traffic in this city?"

She just huffs, not certain why she's being so hostile when she definitely agrees with him — he just doesn't have to be such a dick about everything — wrapping her arms around her torso to shield herself from the cold. It's quiet between the two of them for a few hundred feet. Then he says, softer than necessary, so soft she almost misses it, "Harper doesn't hate you, you know."

Great. So he heard that part, too. Her head shifts to him, disbelief coating her face, lips pursed disapprovingly. "Sure. That's why every time I stand next to you she refuses to make eye-contact with me."

Bellam huffs, like she's touched upon something impossible. "That's because — of other reasons."

Before she can open her mouth to ask him to specify that very statement, he already continuing his explanation, "You're her favorite resident. She's just intimidated by you, you know. She looks up to you." He rolls his eyes, disinterested by any and all Clarke Griffin praise. "You're practically everyone's favorite."

She scoffs, partly humoured, but at least no longer feels like constantly punching him in the face. She feels easier, than before, like they're just two regular acquaintances on a walk, able to have normal conversations without ripping each other's heads off. "Have they met Wells?"

"Okay, fine," Bellamy admits with a chuckle, scrubbing a hand over his face quickly. "Wells is our favorite. But you're a close second."

"I find that hard to believe." Maybe she's being petty. It's just that this is Bellamy. He doesn't like her. Their relationship is complicated. They work well together, really well, even when they argue, maybe especially when they argue because it brings out the best in the both of them. When they're not at work though — Clarke doesn't know what they are. Maybe it's just hard to switch off the defensive attitudes on both sides. "Especially coming from you."

"I don't hate you either," he says, but it comes out almost like he hadn't meant to say it at all. For once, his gaze is fixed ahead instead of on hers, because he loves to make her feel uncomfortable, watch her squirm. Maybe he's the one feeling uncomfortable for once.

"Why not?" A confused crease appears in between her brows, and she can't help but bring some of that edge back to her voice, some of that insult and disdain. "I thought I was an arrogant know-it-all who was only offered residency because of nepotism?"

Bellamy makes a surprised or maybe impressed sound in the back of his throat, like half a chuckle. It's quiet for a second, dare she dream calm, then he says, "You're also a good doctor. You care about the patients." The corner of his mouth turns up, teasingly. "And you listen to the nurses. Most of the time, anyway."

It comes out so genuine, so delicate, so heartfelt and unlike him, she's actually taken aback for a second, having to swallow tightly to get the lump in her throat to go away. She's weirdly affected by the statement, and she doesn't know how to deal with those feelings when it comes to Bellamy.

"I'm still not sorry about overruling you," she cuts in, defensive, then her shoulders sag, deciding she has to give him something in return, too. "But I could've handled it better."

"Wow," he replies, folding a hand over his heart mockingly. "I'm touched, princess."

She comes to a halt in front of her apartment complex, finally offering him an earnest smile. "You know I hate that nickname."

"I know," he smirks, like that piece of information just makes him like the moniker more, giving her a small wave as he back away from her, towards the train station she supposes. "See you Monday?"

"I guess?" Clarke calls after him, fishing for her keys on the bottom of her bag, and it's not like she doesn't know what just happened — even if she does have major post-shift messy brain she was  _there_  beside him the whole time — she's just not sure what it all means.

All she knows is that one semi-civil conversation doesn't change anything.

(However that Monday when the nursing aid Murphy — who she's still not entirely sure isn't soley here to crack and weasle his way into the opioid strongbox to sell them on the black market — sees her looking around the ER a little puzzled, he informs her with a sneer that Bellamy got floated to Neuro for the day, and she has to pretend very hard she's not disappointed.)

/.\

It becomes a regular thing after that. The walking her home.

Every time their shifts line up he's there, insisting, demanding, arrogant, and the worst of them all,  _considerate_. At first she fights — because she's Clarke and defiance is her middle name — until she finally realizes his company isn't even that bad. Not compared to the time she's stuck in surgery, leaves three hours later than planned and actually has to whip out her pepper spray because of some freak catcalling her and following her for at least two blocks, anyway. And if their shifts happened not to line up, he got her  _chaperones_.

(She didn't even notice it at first; thinking it was just a coincidence lab-tech Jasper offers her a ride on the back of his bicycle; convincing herself that the ride intern Finn gives her was just him being his regular ass-kissing self in combination with the obvious crush he's been harboring for months now; and when their physical slash occupational therapist Raven forced Clarke to join her and Luna from psych's carpool, she writes it off as just some friendly sisterhood solidarity and not wanting to have the brutal murder of a co-worker on your conscience.)

After a few weeks, she decides to call him out on it. Or more like, she's had the most horrendous day and he's right there, being annoying enough to justify taking her frustration out on him.

He's already casually leaning against the wall beside the door to the locker rooms, buried in some old, beat-up book. Instead of saying hello, like she's been doing for the past couple of weeks, she rolls her eyes and brushes past him.

He snorts, humoured, pushing himself off the wall before hurrying to catch up with her, "Good evening to you too."

Again, Clarke ignores him, impatiently waiting for the front doors of the hospital to slide open. He comes to a stop beside her, and she hears him open his mouth, but to her surprise he doesn't say anything. He does follow her outside, and down the road, and when she still hasn't said a word after five minutes, Bellamy finally breaks the unbearing silence himself.

"Did you —" It's a shame she barely lets him get a word out. Clarke explodes, stopping on the middle of the street, catching the attention of at least two random pedestrians on the sidewalk opposite of them, and the worst part is she feels good. Feels great even, to let some of that rage bubble to the surface and lash out. "Why do you keep doing this?"

He looks so unabashedly unbothered it only pisses her off further. "Doing what?"

"This!" She blurts out, loud, motioning between the two of them like it's not the most obvious thing in the world. "Walking me home."

"Like I said," he starts, unimpressed, but there's an unnatural clench of his jaw that she notices, fingers digging into his palms. "It's dangerous out here on the streets. Something might happen to you."

"Why do you even fucking care?" She spits, then lets the words stretch the silence between them. She's not one for a dramatic pause, but she wants him to know she's serious. This is the most confusing co-worker slash mortal enemy slash bodyguard relationship she's ever had. "We're not friends. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure we hate each other."

He doesn't even have the decency to hide the look of disappointment on his face, but she can't stop now, can't do it. She takes a step forward, stabbing a finger into his chest, fully aware she must sound like a lunatic, voice on the verge of breaking. "Don't we? I think you're a cocky, meddling dick and you think I'm a privileged, undeserving  _princess_?"

That's why he uses the nickname right, to remind her of how different they are, of where she stands? Not with them, never with them, but above them.

His eyebrows hike even further up, while she just stands there, chest heaving up and down erratically. Finally, he cuts in, harsh, "Are you through?"

It's like a wave of cold water hits her in the face all at once. She's being absolutely ridiculous.  _He's_  being ridiculous. This is not how he was supposed to react. Clarke blows out a harsh breath through her nose, fingers flexing on top of her arms, wrapped across her chest angrily. His gaze doesn't falter, he doesn't back down, and some of her resolve falters. She caves and nods, reluctant, teeth gritted together.

Somehow, his eyes soften as he calmly presses, "I heard about the mom from Lincoln. That can't have been easy. Are you okay?"

And just like that, her shoulders sag, and she can let out a breath she didn't know she was holding all this time, her arms dropping to her sides. She swallows tightly, reaching up to rub her forehead with the palm of her hand. Honestly? "No."

He lets her process her thoughts for a moment, keeping his distance, and she doesn't know why, or how she can, but she actually wants to tell him how she feels. It's shockingly easy, even. She tries to stay calm, blinking her blurry vision away, pushing out a deep breath. "I still don't know how to do any of this. How am I supposed to tell a twenty-five year old with a newborn that she has maybe two months to live? That's if she's lucky."

Comes in with a random persistent cough, took her kid with her because she had no babysitter, leaves with the news she has metastasized stage four lung cancer and that there medically was little left for them to do but make the process as painless as possible for her. It's just so fucking unfair.

"There's no rulebook, Clarke," Bellamy starts, careful, and she wants to believe him, she does, he's been at this longer than her and she knows he has a difficult time separating his feelings from his job. It's not the first time for her either, but normally she can shut that part of herself off, can rationalize it. Today, she doesn't feel like rationalizing anything. "There's no right way of doing it. There's just your way. And really all you can do for her, for any patient, is be there for them. Let them know you care."

"That's not enough," Clarke snaps, heated, but not at him for once, her voice croaking. She runs a hand through her hair again, and just to have something else to do, somewhere else to focus her gaze, she slowly starts to walk again. "I wish I could do more. That instead of her, I could take — I don't know."

"You can't help everyone, Clarke, and you can't punish yourself for it," he reasons, then lets out a small, raspy self-deprecating chuckle. "I tried that for a while and, believe me, it doesn't work."

She wants to ask him about it. Wants to know what he means, how he means it. Wants to know more. But that would mean she cares, so she squashes the feeling back down. It's easier to be honest with someone she doesn't like.

"It's not — I just — sometimes I wish I could switch places with them, you know? I wish that I could bear for her, so that — I want her to be able to see her daughter grow up," Clarke tries to explain, wiping at the small amount of wetness collected beneath her eyes. "See her take her first steps, see her toothy-grin when she loses her first baby teeth, see her graduate high school."

"It doesn't work like that," Bellamy counters, sounding regretful, reminiscent, even. Next he sounds more intense, protective almost, and when she looks over at him, his pupils are dark. "If you bear it all, one day you're going to crash and burn, and you won't be able to help all the other people who need you."

"I just can't stop thinking of that little baby," she admits softly, after a moment of comfortable and yet tense silence. "I lost my father when I was young. Not her age, but young enough. I know how it feels." She worries her bottom lip, thinks it over. "Maybe I let this one get too close."

"We all have those patients," he counters earnestly, then lighter, more teasing, he glimpses over at her and adds, "I mean just last week some guy with a micropenis came in —"

She laughs, watery, the sound a surprise to herself, almost choking on it, shoving him away as some of the heaviness she felt before dissipates just like that. He barely moves, but shares her laughter, deep and warm. "Too soon?"

"Dick," she mutters, but she can't wipe the grin of her face just yet.

It's quiet for another moment between the two of them, then Bellamy sighs. He kicks an empty coke can away. "Honestly, I'm glad I don't have your job. Mine isn't easy compared to yours, but you have to make so many decisions, you have to carry so much responsibility, and sometimes none of it is good enough." He rubs the back of his neck, lost in thought, and she's thankful, that he's taking her so seriously, that he knows just what to say. "You just — you have to try and find a way to cope with it. Slay the demons. However you can."

"It does help. To talk to someone." Most of her friends aren't medics and she can talk to them, but it's not the same. They're sympathetic, and it's hard to explain, but they don't  _understand_. He does. "So thanks."

"Well, I'm always here," he says, casually, as they round the corner to her apartment block. The next part sounds a little offended, snobbish almost. "Even when you like to pretend I'm not."

"Seriously? Are you still angry I requested Lincoln?" she responds, equally as offended but also still smiling like an idiot, and she feels lighter already, more like herself. Not quite like she's going to be able to sleep the full eight hours tonight, but like she won't wake up with red, puffy eyes and sixteen different, better ways she could've told the mother she was dying. "You know he worked L&D for like six years, I thought he'd have some tricks up his sleeve to entertain the baby."

Bellamy follows her up the steps to the main entrance hall while she fumbles trying to get her keys from her bag, apparently not satisfied with her defense yet. " _I'm_  good with babies, too."

"I believe you," she says, deadpan, jamming her key into the keyhole before using her elbow as leverage to open the door.

"I'm telling you —" He starts, voice rough like this is actually a very important issue to him and he can't possibly have her think the opposite. "I practically raised my sister from the time I was six. I even named her. Babies love me."

"I said I believe you," she repeats, choking down a laugh as she looks at him and his prideful grin from across the threshold. It's kind of cute, damnit, so cute that she reaches out, pats his arm, encouragingly. "Next time I have an infant assigned to me and they give me a rookie nurse I'll formally request you to supervise and find some some non-dangerous medical equipment to distract the baby with, okay?"

Bellamy narrows his eyes, searching her face, before finally finding what he was looking for and nodding in agreement. "Fine."

"Fine," she says, mostly to be contrary, and he lingers at the door, holding her gaze, while the silence stretches between them. She holds her breath the entire time, ignoring the rapidity of her pulse. It breaks when he's raps a knuckle against the mull post one, two times, before finally tearing his eyes away. "Goodnight then."

It almost feels like a challenge, the charged moment between them. The corners of her lips turn up, holding up her free hand in a small wave goodbye, "Night."

/.\

"Did you know the plastics attending is hooking up with the neuro fellow?" He reveals, their arms brushing as he offers her one of his twizzlers, tearing off a big chunk of his own with his teeth.

It's getting warmer out this time of the year, the heat dragging on far into the evening, which means he doesn't wear a jacket, which means there's a lot of consequences for her. Like their bare arms touching, for example, just from the top of her head.

"Roan and  _Ontari_?" Clarke checks, just to be sure, grabbing a piece of the red liquorice from the bag he's holding out. He nods, positive, and she mockingly gasps, scandalized, biting off half of the stick as she she talks, mouth full, "Isn't that his adoptive sister?" She thinks it over again, then scrunches up her nose, swallowing the food heavily, "Didn't his neurogod mom disown him for choosing plastics as a speciality and then take in her as a substitute daughter?"

"Yes," he confirms expressly, raising his eyebrows as he tears off another chunk of twizzler, pointing whatever's left of it in her direction to emphasize his following answer. "And yes."

Clarke chuckles, giving him a small, prodding nod, "What else?"

He hums, picking at a piece of liquorice stuck in between his teeth with his tongue as he thinks. "Oh. Raven and Luna dated for like three months, you knew that?"

"Wow," she concludes, having to process the information for a second. Talk about a power couple in the run for world domination. "Wow. That's just unfair to all of us commoners."

He chuckles, finishing off his candy, and it's quiet for a moment. Then he clears his throat, almost awkwardly, breaking the silence sheepishly, "What about you?"

"What  _about_ me?" She frowns, turning her head to look at him as she bumps into him a little, trying to avoid crashing into a pedestrian trying to pass them by.

He steadies her by putting his free hand on her waist, the plastic bag scrunching noisily in his other hand as her arm comes up across his chest and he tries to hold on that one as well. Once they're both individually enjoying their personal spaces again, he, without making eye-contact, clarifies, "Well, who are you hooking up with?"

Clarke raises her eyebrows, mostly to herself because her love slash sex life is kind of all kinds of pathetic at the moment. "No one."

"Come on," he argues, tsking in disbelief. "What about that hot peds resident you're always around? Tall, dark and dreamy?"

He offers her another twizzler, but when she shakes her head, he shrugs his backpack to the side and stuffs it in there. Clarke grins at him, incredibly amused, "Are you seriously pretending you don't know Wells' name right now?"

"It's how I remain some sort of semblance of alpha male dominance," he answers, casual, then definitely judgmentally, almost a little pissed off like she's deliberately lying to him, presses, "Come on. We all know what goes down in the on-call rooms."

She shifts her head to send him an incredulous look. "Hard pass. I've seen him pee his spongebob undies, I don't think finding Wells sexy after going through something like that is within the realm of possibilities."

"Really?" He snorts, dumbfounded as he fixes his gaze ahead. Like he's trying to process she couldn't p _ossibly_  not having gotten laid in the past, what? Eight months now? She definitely can. She's living through it. She uses it as an excuse for herself as to why she literally gets chills every time he grins, or feels spark going up her spine every time they touch. It's starting to become a problem. "So you expect me to believe you're not hooking up with anyone?"

Clarke lifts a shoulder, indifferent. "I have two fish." They were a gag gift from her friend Niylah for Christmas like two years ago, and she hasn't even named them yet.

"I have a dog," Bellamy cuts in, affectionate, and there it is again. That smile that kind of makes her want to jump him. She really needs to find someone and get laid. "Or I share it with my sister I guess. She walks him when I'm on shift."

"She lives with you?" Clarke asks, ignoring the rush of regretful adrenaline because she didn't immediately ask him if he's seeing anyone. Now she can't circle back without sending interested. And she is interested, of course. In a friendly way. They're friends now. She thinks.

"We used to," he admits, hissing at the memory. Then he sends her a playful, pointed look, cynicism lining his voice, "But as you know I have a very  _present_  personality —"

"You don't say," Clarke comments, dry. Not unlike last time, they make their way up the steps towards the entrance of her building together.

He continues with a flick of his eyes towards the sky, "— which runs in the family, I guess, and — I don't know — it's more complicated than that, but I think eventually it came down to us both needing a little space from each other as to not ruin our relationship forever."

Clarke finds her keys at the bottom of her bag, but doesn't try and open the lock yet. Instead, she offers him a smile. "And now she walks your dog."

Bellamy's tongue pokes out for just a second, shaking his head to himself, and oh. Oh. Okay. She did not expect her brain to take his tongue and make it wanna go different places. Whatever. It's not him specifically, it's the hormones. "She  _generously_  walks my dog, even allows me to follow her on social media these days —"

"Wow," Clarke interjects, sarcastically, and he chokes down a chuckle, finishing off, " _And_  I get to make her dinner three times a week, of course."

She grimaces, biting down on her bottom lip. "Her way or the highway?"

He smirks, both fond and sad around the edges at the same time. "Something like that."

She hums affirmatively, not wanting to press it any further and make him uncomfortable. His sister obviously means a lot to him. She tilts her head, finally releasing her lip from her teeth and lodging her thumbs into her back pockets, nudging him with her arm, eyes narrowed playfully. "About this elusive dog you keep mentioning…"

"Oh, yeah," he grins, starting to fish his phone from the pocket of his pants. He fumbles around with it for a while until he's found what he's looking for, stepping aside so she can look at his screen, their arms pressed together as he uses his thumb to scroll through an album of pictures. It's the most adorable long coat german shepherd she's ever seen, in various positions and surroundings.

Her favorite the one where the dog is lying on top of Bellamy's chest, and it's kind of a selfie, but not  _really_. You can tell he didn't try at all, that he was just trying to take a picture of his dog taking a nap on top of him. It makes something warm and enamored bloom in the middle of her chest.  _His_  favorite is obviously the semi-professional instagram filter photo in the woods of the dog and who, she assumes, is his sister (it takes a second, but then she recognizes the sharp cheekbones, that cocky smirk, the defiant glint in her eyes).

She catches herself glimpsing over at him instead of the screen, admiring the affectionate look on his face. "What's his name?"

"Argos," he reveals, smiling absently at another picture before locking his phone. He doesn't move away from her. "It's what Odysseus' dog was called."

She shifts her head to look at him, raising her eyebrows, maybe a little bit judgemental. He meets her gaze, pursing his lips to keep from breaking out into a shit-eating grins, "What? I happen to like watching the history channel in my free time."

"Breaking stereotypes everywhere," Clarke laughs, throatily — bubbling up from her chest and permeating warmth all throughout her body — and in return he grins, tentative at first, then it spreads, pale moonlight reflecting of his golden skin, highlighting his freckles, and oh. Oh fucking hell.

She takes a step back, sudden, fumbling for the door handle behind her back. She needs some space. Physically.

"I should go inside," she says, throwing her thumb over her shoulder for good measure, avoiding his gaze because she knows he'll be able to tell from the size of her pupils what she really wants for him to do right now, no doubt in her mind her cheeks are pink as well, and she simply won't allow for him to live with that knowledge.

Bellamy nods, looking flustered, or maybe just confused, "Yeah." He clears his throat as he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, shaking his head a little. "Yeah, I should get going if I don't want to miss the last train."

"Yeah," she echoes, dumbly, because that's about the tenth use of the word between the two of them, then tears her eyes away from him, jamming her key into the door a little too roughly.

"See you tomorrow?" He grins, absolutely adorable, and Clarke suddenly feels like writing a very angry personal letter to his parents on why they allowed him to look this way.

"Yeah," she replies, automatic, then curses herself, quickly adding, "Tomorrow."

She ducks her head and pushes her way inside the building, and then her own apartment. Clarke finds herself with her back pressed against her door, chest heaving up and down erratically and pulse gallop for no reason whatsoever. No reason at all.

/.\

One second, she is looking at Bellamy, laughing along with him — kind of very professionally making fun of one of their frequent flyers and how he always makes heart eyes at Clarke — brushing her hair back from her face and tucking it behind her ear before she drops it back down, their hands brushing for a second as they walk outside through the doors of the main entrance. He's not laughing anymore, instead he's just grinning, and he opens his mouth, about to say something, and it's like fucking angels are harmonizing the words ' _fuck me_ ', when the next second, somebody clears their throat.

Clarke's turns her head towards the sound, brow furrowing in annoyance because they were kind of in the middle of something here, they're kind of always in the middle of something these days, when a tall slender woman steps out into the light, brown hair perfectly coiled at the ends, strong arms crossing her chest.

Vague recognition crosses Clarke's mind, and the badge dangling from her loop of her belt catches her attention next, meaning the woman must work with them.

"Did you—" Need something, Clarke was going to ask, but then Bellamy is already talking.

"Oh, fuck. Echo," he states, alarm settling in on his face, looking between the two women, shouldering his backpack up further. He looks regretful, to her and Clarke, she's not quite sure. "Shit. I completely forgot we made plans."

Clarke feels dread wash all over body in an instant, all her muscles tensing up, like they were caught out on a date by his girlfriend, or worse, wife. She might throw up. It's not like they're  _something_. They're not dating, or in love, he's just trying to be nice, walking her home. Or he doesn't want her gruesome death on his conscious at least. (But, a tiny voice negs in the back of her mind, they're not nothing either.)

The woman does nothing but stare at him blankly, completely emotionless, even though her fingertips dig further into her skin, which says something, at least.

"Uhm," he clears his throat, glancing over at Clarke again. "Clarke this is Echo. She works in pathology." She works with dead things. Explains the whole dispassionate no emotions thing. At least there's not a relationship definer added at the start of the sentence, like my girlfriend.

Since she has manners — and because she doesn't care this is happening and she absolutely does not want to die right now — Clarke sticks out her hand, and the other woman takes it, her palm dry and stiff in hers. Bellamy's gaze falls onto their hands, then he adds, "Echo, this is Clarke. She's one of our residents."

Interesting choice of description. Echo nods, brief, then flicks her eyes back over to him. "Are we still on?"

He looks back at her beside him, opening his mouth, but Clarke brushes him off immediately, covering his arm with her hand while her heart pounds loudly. She doesn't know why it pounds loudly. She just knows it isn't out of fear of getting stabbed on the middle of the street. She'll be fine. "It's okay. I told you I don't need a chaperone."

His brows furrow together, his jaw setting. "Are you sure?"

Clarke doesn't know why she feels hurt. She has no right to be hurt. She doesn't want to feel hurt, but she does. Especially when he's looking at her like he wants her to say no because it sends some serious mixed signals her way.

Clarke opens her mouth, hopes that for once maybe she can be brave enough to say what she feels, but then closes it again. She feels stupid, small. She's always known who he was, known about his reputation with girls, too. Echo isn't a surprise as much as a confirmation that maybe she doesn't mean as much to him as he does to her. That maybe he just likes the challenge that comes with her, or maybe he  _really_ doesn't think about her in that way. Maybe this is just on her, for allowing herself to think it could ever be something more, for allowing herself to get into her own head.

"She's said she is," Echo cuts in, sounding neutral but dismissive enough, nodding her head towards the left. "Come on. My truck is in the parking garage."

His date starts walking away, but Bellamy lingers behind, glancing over at Clarke again. She forces a smile onto her face, although she doesn't have to try too hard. She's not a horrible person, she wants him to be happy. "Seriously. Go have fun. Don't worry about me."

He still looks unsure, his brow furrowed together. "Will you at least text me when you get home?"

"If I get home, you mean," she teases, just because she can't help it, and when his face contorts with horror she chuckles, giving him a playful push towards the parking garage. Echo is waiting twenty feet ahead, foot tapping on the pavement impatiently. "I'll text you. Now go, please."

He nods, reluctant, eyes still searching her face — like one tiny sign of fear will make him ditch his plans anyway — then when Echo call his name again, finally makes a move to close the distance between them.

There's not a single sign of fear on her face to be found, because Clarke's not afraid. If anything, she almost  _wants_  someone to attack her, just so she can get rid of some of this misplaced anger she feels all of sudden. She doesn't even know why she's angry. There's no logical explanation.

It's not like—like he's hers, or something. Like she has a claim on him, or him walking her home. So she'll just have to get over it.

/.\

"How was your date?"

It's the first thing out of her mouth when she sees him before rounds the next day — discarding her used gloves into a trash can beside him, nodding when one of the other nurses, Lincoln, reminds her to put an order into the EMR — because she totally got over it. Well, she went  _over_  it. About a hundred and one times in bed last night, why she couldn't just let herself risk it, just this once. Today, standing in front of him as his co-worker, she remembers.

(Echo. With her long legs, and shiny brown hair, and slender waist, and narrow hips. About the exact opposite of what she looks like, Clarke thinks.)

Bellamy looks up from his computer, a grin forming on his face in recognition. Then it fades slightly, a hiss leaving the back of his throat at the memory, "I think the whole thing was pretty much over when I saw the confederate flag bumper sticker."

Clarke grimaces, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her white coat, as she watches him get around the computer to come stand beside her instead, "I'm sorry. The truck should've given it away to be honest."

He elbows her in the ribs, playful, as they start walking from the nursing station to the first of his patients together. "I gave her the benefit of the doubt. The truck might've just come with the sticker. I asked, and then she said I wasn't like ' _those people_ '. I thought she was joking. I laughed."

Clarke laughs, suddenly feeling giddy at the admission he didn't have a good time last night and might've almost ended up in the plot of the movie Get Out. She is definitely a horrible person. "And you were scared for  _my_  life?"

He chuckles, coming to a halt in front of a closed curtain. One of the nursing aids — a cute, nervous, young girl named Mel — comes out from behind the curtains, pushing a laundry cart. She says hi, specifically to Bellamy first, but then her smile gets less bashful and more confident, and she says hi to her as well.

Clarke beams at her, giving her a small wave, which practically makes the girl blush. Then Bellamy casually thanks her for making a headstart and basically calls her his favorite nursing aid but to not tell Murphy, and then she  _really_  blushes, brushing some hair behind her ear as she passes them by with the cart.

Clarke pinches him in the arm, and he yelps, rubbing the spot as he pulls a face at her. "What?"

She bites down a laugh, nudging her head towards the way Mel left. "She's practically a child!"

Bellamy tries hard to hide a smirk, but fails even harder. "I wasn't doing anything."

"You know what you were doing," she retorts, unimpressed at the innocent spiel he's putting on, making a circular motion directed at the general area of his face. "You did that whole thing you do. With your eyes, and your voice."

She's seen him use it on a lot of old ladies, young ladies, too. Even men. Patients, doctors, nurses, physical therapists. No one's safe. He knows he can be charming when he wants to be, or needs something. It's annoying. The only thing Clarke can fall back on is people underestimating her because she's female and blonde and then domineer her way into a win when they least expect it.

"Oh yeah?" His voice sounds raspy and deep, and it's the exact thing she was talking about, only worse. Because now it's directed at her and it sends a tingle straight down her spine. He raises his eyebrows, and suddenly she realizes how close they're actually standing, how completely  _unfunny_ this actually is, suddenly her eyes are locked onto his and her pulse is a gallop and her palms are starting to become sweaty. She doesn't like the effect he has on her at all. "What was I doing exactly?"

He's challenging her, and she's not about to back down, but then their patient coughs, noisily and absolutely disgusting, definitely sputum productive, reminding them where they are and luckily breaking their — whatever it was.

Bellamy smirks — and she briefly wonders how he can appear so unaffected when she was about three seconds away from risking it all (and for what? a quick long overdue hook-up?), but then notices the hard way he swallows, the swift clench of his jaw — grabbing a hold of the curtain as he nods his head towards it, "After you, doc."

It's easy getting into work mode after crossing the imaginary threshold towards the bed. Once they finish examining their first patient and come up with a gameplan, he closes the curtains behind them as they walk to the nearest hand sanitizer dispenser.

While they disinfect, Bellamy lowers his voice slightly, leaning closer, and she wants to lean further away from him, but that would raise questions. "So, now that I have you convinced no one hates you, will you finally joins us for drinks tonight?"

Clarke lifts an eyebrow judgingly, pulling her small tablet from her coat pocket to look up their next patient. "Isn't Mel literally the only one here not allowed to legally drink?"

He tsks, flicking his eyes up to the ceiling briefly, calmly putting his hand on her forearm like it's no big deal before telling her, "Come on, just one drink. You deserve it."

Clarke opens her mouth to respond, even if she's not entirely sure what her response would be. A drink sounds nice, but with him and his coven of nurses? She's not sure it beats out the option of cracking open a bottle of wine and facetiming one of her friends.

Harper comes running from one of the supply closets, a bunch of suction catheters clasped in her gloved hands, purple flowery scrubs covered in either blood or vomit, or both. "Clarke, they need you in trauma room 1!"

Bellamy takes her tablet from her as she starts pulling her hair up into a high ponytail. Smugly, he adds, "See, she called you Clarke. First name basis."

Clarke rolls her eyes, jogging backwards as she finishes off tying her blonde locks together. Then she turns. "I'm not making any promises," she calls over her shoulder, already rushing after Harper, struggling to keep up with her.

The trauma takes up most of her time that shift, first trying to keep him alive long enough to get to the OR, then assisting the trauma attending Indra in surgery for whatever's left of her shift, and then some.

Bellamy, of fucking course, is waiting by her locker before she has any excuses to think of. His eyes light up in recognition, and fuck, now she actually wants to come. A drink would be nice. So fucking nice.

Instead of saying this, she groans at the sight of him, throwing her white coat on the nearest bench and leaning her forehead against her locker dramatically. She mumbles, "I hoped the 45 minute head start would be enough of a hint, even for you."

He laughs, deep and throaty, pushing himself off the one beside hers, "The rest already left. I'll wait for you outside, okay, princess?" So he's obviously not giving in. And she kind of  _wants_  to give in.

The nickname makes her look up, sending him a dirty look as she starts to pull her scrub shirt over her head without really thinking about it. She's wearing a spaghetti strapped top underneath, they're all medical professionals and this is a co-ed, so she doesn't really think it's a big deal, that is, until her hair gets stuck somewhere on the shirt and she's struggling like an idiot to get free.

He's laughing again, which pisses her off, because she's a second away from falling over maybe and the only way out she can see right now is going bald, but then his warm hands slide up her forearms to swat hers away. Clarke stiffens, and he snorts, the sound so close she almost makes an embarrassing noise. "I help people get dressed all the time, relax."

Clarke blows out a deep breath, impatient. "It's kind of hard to relax —" He tugs her hair loose skillfully, pulling the shirt off her arms slowly, and it makes her skin flush because of the intimacy of it all. She blows a strand of hair out of her face, and all humour leaves her voice when she finishes her sentence realizing their chests are practically touching and she can count every freckle on his face from how close they are, every eyelash from the angle he's looking down at her. "— when I can't see shit."

"Huh," he notes, his breathing getting heavier, like he just now noticed her face. Or maybe her impressive rack, from this angle she can't tell exactly what he is observing. She grasps her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes flicking down to his lips, barely a second, and she prays to god he didn't notice. Then she looks back up and he's blatantly staring at  _her_ lips, and she doesn't know what to do with that information.

They're at work for god's sake. He's holding her scrubs. Up until a few months ago, if she saw him in the locker room on her good days she'd look the other way, and on her worse days, she'd definitely send him one of those ' _if looks could kill_ ', deathful ones.

His free hand comes up to tuck some hair behind her ear, and embarrassingly — like she's some kind of virgin catholic school girl — she practically shivers, her whole skin prickling as she sucks in a sharp breath. Bellamy breaks their gaze, and this time, much softer, he reminds her, "Outside, yeah?"

Clarke nods, still not sure her vocal cords work, then nods more firmly as she turns away from him to open her locker and kick off her shoes. Instead of seeing him walk away, she hears the entry doors slam shut and she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

On their way towards the bar, that's practically across the street, they don't mention anything of what just transpired between the both of them. He asks her about the surgery, and she makes sure to drag out enough details to last them the way there.

Since it's a Friday night the place is pretty crowded and they have to make their way through a body of people. He walks ahead of her, already waving at his friends slash co-workers, his other hand reaching out behind him for her to take. She does, but only because she doesn't want to lose him in the crowd.

His whole hand practically swallows hers, and suddenly she feels this intense need to feel him, all of him, on top of her, and then forces herself back into reality, chest tight with want. She needs to be fully present right now since — for the first time in her life — she's experiencing tall, broad, male privilege, the two of them making their way through the thick crowd in mere seconds.

"Shots!" Harper yells out, in lieu of a greeting, patting Monty on the back as a sign for him to hand the last two remaining shots from the tray on the table to them. Bellamy lets go of her hand as they come to a full stop in front of the booth. Clarke tries not to glance over at him.

He slides in beside Harper, taking the shot Monty's holding out, and regretfully she ends up across from him, beside Miller. Respectfully, she likes Miller, in that way you're forced to befriend your cousins who you have nothing in common with but are around enough that not befriending them would be awkward for the both of you.

She downs the shot though, chasing it with two beers from the pitcher that's on the middle of the table, and then suddenly her and Miller are talking RuPaul's Drag Race and soon enough the horror that is coming out to your parents. They're more alike than she originally thought.

"I didn't come out of the closet, I was forcefully removed by the sexually suggestive drawings of my high school woodshop teacher miss Diyoza," Clarke sighs wistfully, playing with the umbrella Monty planted behind her ear as a joke earlier. "My mom 'found' them in my bag. My dad had to break it to me that I didn't only look up to my teacher, I was  _into_  her."

"Woodshop?" Monty asks from beside her, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"It was either that or taking a computer class with creepy McCreary who had a known reputation for liking 'little young blonde females'," Clarke grimaces, then clinks her glass with Monty's when he holds it out in 'men are trash' solidarity, "Direct quote."

"My grandma asked me who the 'friend' was in all my pictures," Miller deadpans, "I asked her if she knew what a rimjob was."

Clarke chokes on her sip of beer, pressing a napkin to her mouth to get rid of the evidence she almost just spat it out on the table. She turns to look at him with wide eyes, but he doesn't look any less serious than ten seconds before.

Bellamy inserts himself into their conversation, all the while patting Harper's back as she tries to stop wheezing with laughter. She's a happy drunk, which is good for Clarke, she thinks. "Nate worked med-surg for five years."

So Miller isn't his first name, good to know. He wears a different name tag each day. on purpose, she wasn't even sure Miller wasn't just a nickname born out of convenience.

Clarke hisses, clapping Miller on the thigh out of respect, "That explains a lot." He's been through it, seen some dark things.

"I floated for a while," Harper says, slouching in her seat with her bottom lip sticking out in a pout, "Nurses are exclusionists."

Clarke snorts, buzzed enough to raise her glass to that.

"At least you could make your own schedule?" Bellamy offers, trying to be nice and half-assing it, and beside her, Miller scoffs. "Of course that would be a perk for you."

Bellamy tilts his head at the man across from him, brow furrowing together. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Harper takes a hold of Bellamy's arm and pulls on it playfully. "Don't pretend like you haven't been begging literally everyone to swap shifts with you so they line up with Miss Doctor Princess' over there."

"That are a lot of titles, Harp," he cuts in, nostrils flaring slightly as he peels her hand off his arm and throws it back into her own lap roughly. Harper just smirks, sticking out her tongue.

Clarke looks from them — lost in a full on poking war she thinks, Bellamy's skin flushed slightly — over to Monty, to see how legit Drunk Harper's claim is, and since he puts his beer to his lips and pointedly looks over at some painting on the wall of a cactus like it hasn't been there all night, it must be true.

Miller seems to feel for him though, and changes the subject by announcing, oh so subtly, he's changing the subject. They share another pitcher of beer and at one point have a peanut throwing contest before calling it a night.

Outside is cold enough to clear her head and sober them up a little, but warm enough for them to be out without their jackets. It takes almost half an hour for them to get to her place, because they keep stopping for dumb shit.

Like her trying to give him a piggyback ride, for example. He has to return the favor because she twists her ankle and he refuses to let her walk on it until she can recite the alphabet backwards — whatever that has to do with — and it takes tipsy Clarke a while. Especially when her cheek's pressed to his warm back.

She finally builds up the courage to ask him as they come to a halt in front of the steps leading up to her building, on their own feet, that is. Clarke decides to just blurt it out, "Did you really change your shifts just so you could walk me home?"

His face immediately sobers at the question, his shoulders straightening. He avoids looking her directly in the face, then inhales sharply.

"We work in healthcare, princess, you really thought they lined up miraculously on their own?" Bellamy retorts, an unfamiliar edge to his voice. Is he mad? Upset with her? "I'm not a mathematician but the odds of that are zero, I think."

Clarke searches his face in the dark, then looks away, pushing some hair behind her ear. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and then she finally allows her eyes to fall on him again. Softly, quietly, vulnerable, she pushes, "Why would you do that?"

He scoffs, like actually scoffs, rolling his eyes as he looks away from her a second. One hand comes up to tug on his curls, screwing up the whole casually messy thing he usually has going on. Her fingers flex unconsciously at her sides, wanting to smooth it out. Bellamy's jaw clenches briefly, and then he challenges, "I don't know. Do you?"

"No," she bites back, full on vicious because emotions are kind of all or nothing right now, crossing her arms over her chest, "that's why I asked, dickhead."

"Because I care about you, Clarke. The thought of you getting hurt —" He cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly as he pinches the bridge of his nose. His eyes meet hers again, a small, self-deprecating smile forming on his lips, "I just want to keep you safe."

Clarke swallows tightly, tries to get the lump in her throat to go away, but it's no use. Instead of telling him she feels the same like an adult, or atleast 'samesies' it like a semi-adult, she takes the safe, pathetic, will-never-be-an-adult-Clarke route. Trying to brush it off with a little humour, forcing a grin onto her face. "You say you care, but then for the past five weeks you've been growing out that thing on your face. It's a personal attack."

He raises his eyebrows, deadly serious, "You don't like my beard?"

"If that's what you want to call it." She bites down on her bottom lip to keep from smiling.

Suddenly, he dashes closer, wrapping his arm around her frame just as she tries to get away. He pulls her back into his chest, lifting her off the sidewalk slightly and causing her to yelp as she desperately grabs onto his arms to steady herself. "Say you like it and I'll let go."

"Are we in third grade?" Clarke snaps, petulant, which is a mistake, because he lifts her again, no mercy for the way her stomach churns with every movement. She kicks her legs, hoping it'll get him to loosen his grip enough so she can escape, pointedly ignoring how his warm breath tickles the back of her neck, how his chest feels so firm underneath her, the somehow intoxicating mix of his cologne and beer engulfing her all at once. He doesn't even budge an inch.

"Fine," she relents, mostly because she can't take the proximity anymore, "Put me down."

Bellamy does as ordered. He stares at her expectantly, and she takes a step closer, bold and defiant, shoulders straightened out, looking him directly in the eye as she lifts her hands to rest on his biceps. "Bellamy Blake."

He grins, smug, obviously enjoying this. "Yes?"

Her fingers practically shake as they come up to touch his cheek, lightly, starkly juxtapositioned with the way she won't allow her smirk to falter even a tiny bit. "That thing you call a beard looks disgu—"

She barely gets to finish her sentence before he's jumping forward again, wrapping his arms back around her torso as she laughs, squirming to get out of his grip. "You're a brat," he comments, lifting her by her thighs, her hands coming up to rest on his shoulders automatically as he threatens to throw her over his shoulder.

She pinches and twists his trapezius shoulder muscle, hard, like she's learned to do in medical school, only feeling satisfied when he yelps out in pain, and then some. He finally lowers her to the ground, and because she wobbles on her feet, she stumbles back into his chest.

When she looks up, he's already looking down at her, like she personally hung the moon up there in the sky herself, the pain in his shoulder long forgotten as his hand suddenly come up to cup her jaw, thumb running over her cheek all tenderly like it's all just perfectly normal. She sucks in a shaky breath, hand coming up to cover his wrist. He leans down, just a smidge, his lips parting slightly, and instead of feeling the perfect calmness she felt a second before standing there with him, all she feels is panic, heart slamming loudly against her ribcage.

It's a bad idea. They're not a match, the two of them. They argue all the time. Besides it could get so, so messy. They work together. Her mom would never allow her to leave, so then Bellamy would have to find a new hospital or at the very least a new ward, and she knows how much he loves his job. All in all, it can't happen. It shouldn't happen.

"It's late," she states, taking a step back and letting her hand drop to her side, then inwardly cringes at herself for the excuse she comes up with. "I don't want you to miss your train."

It takes him another second to wipe the confused crease between his brows off his face, then he hums in agreement, picking up the bag that somehow dropped down beside his feet without her noticing and slinging it over his shoulder. For a second, something she doesn't recognize flashes across his eyes, but then it's gone and replaced with a grin, "Don't forget to hydrate if you don't want a hangover."

She makes her way up the steps to her building's entrance door, turning her key in the lock, "Preaching to the choir, Blake."

Over his shoulder, he calls, almost insolent, "At least two glasses of water, Clarke!" and then he's gone, so she can safely go into her apartment, press herself back against the door and close her eyes to even out her breathing pattern. Desperately tries not to think of the expression on his face whenever he looks at her, so soft and affectionate. Why does he have to be like this? Why does he have to make it this hard?

(After the weekend, he comes to work, freshly-shaved. She, being the bigger person, pretends not to notice.)

/.\

Clarke comes along to the bar regularly now. They drink, and talk shit about patients and co-workers, and sometimes, they do karaoke even though thereś no machine set up and the owner tells them not to.

She's in the middle of ordering a drink for Murphy at the bar after losing an armwrestling match to him — how he and his scrawny arm half the size of hers made that happen is a mystery to her — when someone comes up behind her, hand splaying across her lower back. She immediately knows it's Bellamy, because he doesn't understand the concept of personal space and his cologne has kind of become her favorite scent in the world.

"Hey," he says, low in her ear and Clarke knows for sure it's defies all science and logic but she hears him, only him, loud and clear above the hubbub of drunk people and loud music. "You can stay if you want but I really have to get going if I wanna catch the last train home."

"No, I'll come," she says, handing the bartender a twenty dollar bill because John decided to be a fancy bitch, before sliding the drink off the bar.

"Yeah?" He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as they start making their way back over to their regular booth. "I'm sure Monty wouldn't mind giving you a ride."

She slams the drink down in front of Murphy, hard, with a glare on her face, then looks back at Bellamy, hovering behind her, not hard to have the corners of her lips turn up in a more genuine smile. "It's fine. You ditched your plans for me like a million times before. I'm tired anyway."

He gives in, going to get their coats as Harper boos him for making Clarke go with him, thumbs pointed downwards. Clarke laughs as the other blonde pulls her back into the booth while she's caught off guard and bending down to grab her purse, practically making her fall into Harper's side with a bounce. She presses her face against Clarke's arm, telling her some very explicit things she'd like to do to Bellamy for stealing her away.

Bellamy asks her if she's coming after a few minutes, and Harper pulls on her wrist, her hands sliding up to cup Clarke's cheeks, squeezing them together. Very seriously, for someone her size that downed a whole pitcher of beer herself, "I know you're technically Bellamy's, but you're my favorite, too, okay?"

Clarke flushes and quickly shifts her eyes away from Bellamy, who doesn't even seem to hear their conversation from where he's standing, then squeezes her co-worker and now friend's wrists, planting a loud kiss on her forehead. "You're definitely my favorite, too."

It's quiet outside, especially for a Saturday night. They just run in to two or three other people on the way to her place, the both of them walking in a quicker pace than normal. He keeps checking his watch, making their arms brush and sending tingles all the way to her fingertips.

Once they reach her building, he squeezes her arm quickly, sending her an apologetic look, "I have to hurry, okay?", already jogging away from her before she can register it and even form the thought to say goodbye.

"Bye!" Clarke calls after him, for good measure, even though he probably can't hear it.

She hates to admit it, but she's kind of disappointed this didn't end up like one of their usual nights. The nights they talk by her door for too long, stare into each other's eyes just a second too long, him lingering with those puppy eyes of his but never actually asking, her reluctance to just call it a night and go inside; them talking a little bit longer even though they've talked the whole way to her building, and then when they realize neither of them wants to make the first move to leave, they'd sit down on the steps in front of her building; him pointing out the constellations to her, them arguing about the names because Clarke is sure that at some point, he just started making them up; maybe sitting a little bit too close, their pinkies brushing even though they both know they shouldn't push it this much; him offering her his sweater when it's especially cold outside (he has one that has his name plastered on the front of it, basically threadbare at this point, the end of the sleeves ragged, says it was a gift from his sister when he first graduated nursing school); sometimes she'd even go inside and get them coffee in one of her dad's old thermos, or snacks, even, limited to fast food, like crisps or a bag of M&Ms (one time she'd tried making chocolate milk, the horrible kind with microwaved water because doctors don't have time to learn basic skills that don't help them on the job, and he promised her he would teach her how to make real chocolate milk someday. Then one day he said,  _hey, I almost forgot, I got you something_ , and pulled a brand new thermos out of his bag, calling the old one  _kind of pathetic_ , and for no reason at all, she broke down crying. She told him about her father, how he died, the part her mom played in it, how she turned to pills after, rehab, Kane trying to take her father's place, rehab again, about Lexa, too, how fucked up she felt for such a long time, like everyone she loved died because of her, about all of it. In turn, he told her about his demons, too. About his mom's mental illness, how bad he let her threat his sister because he was too young to understand what was happening, how protective he got over Octavia after that, how he had to take care of his sister on his own when he was just eighteen, how he worked his way through college raising her, and tells her about Gina, too, how he never got to say goodbye); one time they shared her earbuds because he said he'd never heard Uptown Funk and then alternated listening to their favorite songs for the rest of the night; another time they sat close enough for him to balance his phone on his knee and show her his favorite mythological documentary.

They knew not to cross the imaginary line they've set up between the two of them too much. She never tells him to come inside, and he never asks. He always makes sure he has enough time to catch the last train. He'd never even been in her apartment.

Each time he left, she realized just how much more she actually liked him then she let on, and each time she closed the door behind her, she wishes she was brave enough just to say something. Anything. That she wasn't such a coward.

(The truth is, he might look at her like it's the first time he's seeing her every time, and he might care about her, but she's still not sure he would want to risk everything for her. That he cares enough, cares for her in  _that_ way. Or she worries that he might just want it to be a one time thing if it ever does happen. She wouldn't be able to handle that, getting hurt again, so she's better off not knowing at all.)

Flashforward twenty minutes and she's changed into her pyjama shorts and an old tank top, just about to crawl into her bed to watch some netflix and eat some comfort food, when the doorbell rings. Clarke checks the camera to see it's Bellamy, and buzzes him into the building, walking over to her own front door to open it.

"Hi," she breathes, half a question in her voice, hand lingering on the door handle and trying not to sound too surprised at the sight of him in front of her all at once, her stomach flipping over.

"Hey," he smiles, sheepish, running a hand through his hair. For a second, he looks distracted, gaze set on her, then clears his throat. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I missed my train and predictably my phone ran out of battery."

"That's what you get for having an iphone 4 in 2019," Clarke cuts in, wrt, stepping aside to let him in. "I have a charger." Idiot. Of course she has a charger. She has a phone, doesn't she? She bites down on her bottom lip as she watches him cross the threshold, admiring her place quietly, eyes lingering on the paintings and photographs on the walls.

She closes the door behind her, starts rummaging through one of her cabinets to find her spare charger, mostly just to have something to do with her hands. She takes in a deep breath, makes sure to keep her back towards him as she asks, "You could just stay here if you want, though. I know you have an early shift tomorrow."

"I could call a Lyft," he suggests, and she turns, closing the distance between them to hand him the charger. Their fingers brush, and she quickly pulls back her hand, eyes darting everywhere but on him. "It's no big deal. I have a couch."

"Show-off," Bellamy comments, sarcastic, hiding a grin, and dread suddenly overcomes her, making her grimace as she puts up a hand in an apologetic gesture. "I mean, unless you don't want to—"

"No, if you don't mind, I'd like to stay. On the couch." She nods, smiling at him, and he returns the gesture, making sure they stand there like two idiots having the most awkward conversation in the history of time.

Clarke nods again, brushing a few strands that fell from her haphazardly thrown together bun away from her face, as she tells him to make himself at home while she goes to get some blankets and a pillow.

When she comes back with reinforcements, he's already sitting on her couch, shirtless, one shoe off, biting down on his thumbnail, lost in his phone, now attached to a socket in her wall, like he was getting undressed and got distracted in the process.

She swallows down a gulp first, then clears her throat next, trying not to ogle him too much as she puts the comforter and pillow down beside him. He looks up from his phone with a fucking grin so cute she almost combusts on the spot, her heart skipping a beat. Luckily, he talks first, holding up his phone as some sort of proof, "Asking my sister to walk Argos in the morning."

Clarke hums in agreement, then, because she's pathetic, fakes a yawn, stretching one of her arms out above her head. "Well, I'm off to bed. If you need anything, my room is the second door on the right."

He nods, and she might imagine it, but his eyes linger on her legs just a second too long for him not to know it's pretty obvious, and she swallows tight before finally forcing herself to turn on her heels and disappear into her room.

She stares at her ceiling for God knows how long, tosses and turns and tosses and turns, blankets off, blankets on, watches the clock strike 2 AM, and  _really_  starts hating herself when she watches it jump to 3 AM as well. It's impossible to shut her brain off long enough to forget he's just one room away from her.

Fuck it, she decides. He must be asleep by now, considering he doesn't overthink everything obsessively like every other normal person in the world. It's a Clarke thing. Besides, this is her house. She can go into her own kitchen and get a glass of water.

When she opens her door though, he's already standing there, hand raised midway in the air like he was about to knock. What the hell?

"Hi," Clarke states, question mark implied, deep crease between her brows. She has to blink a few times at the darkness to make sure it's really him and not just a figment of her imagination.

There's a beat between the two of them, and then he sighs, voice so low and deep it goes straight to her core, "What are we doing?"

Her eyes widen in slight alarm, wrapping her arms around her torso. "What do you mean?"

"I mean — fuck, Clarke. I've been lying awake for hours trying to tell myself you don't feel the same way, that I shouldn't come up here and —" he breaks himself off, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets tiredly.

"And what?" She pushes, prying his hand away from his face, aware she might come across a little desperate. "Do what?"

"You know what," he responds, rough, a strained look on his face as his fingers intertwine with hers. She looks down at their hands, then slowly back up to his face as she tries to process this all.

"I wasn't sure," Clarke starts, and it all comes spilling out, "That this was something you wanted. I mean if you just want this to be a one time thing, I'm sure there's plenty of other girls that you don't work with that would be more than willing —"

He runs his thumb over the back of her hand, cutting her off. "I thought it was obvious I only want you. That's what everyone tells me, anyway."

It's all too much at once. Clarke racks her brains while she searches his face, almost frantic, pulling her fingers from his grasp so she can think without him completely hijacking her thoughts. "You walk me home everyday, but I  _know_  you, you'd do that for anyone —"

He groans, frustrated, leaning his forehead against her shoulder briefly, his curls tickling the sensitive skin on her neck. Bellamy drags his face back up to hers. "Thank God you're so pretty."

She tilts her head slightly, confused, and he bites down a smile. "You're incredibly dense for a doctor, you know that, right?"

She slaps him in the stomach with the back of her hand, hard, but then he catches her wrist on the way back, making her heart rate speed up to a tenfold as he uses it for leverage to pull her closer, making her stagger into his chest. "If you'll allow it, I'd like to say I'm pretty much in love with you."

She swallows hard, hands coming to rest on top of his chest pecs tentatively before she lifts her head back up to look at his face. Her mouth feels dry and her voice is barely a whisper when she tells him, "I'll allow it this once."

His hands slide up her neck into her hair, and he leans in again, nosing her cheek, then shifting his head so their lips are almost touching, but not quite yet.

"I'm pretty much in love with you," he repeats, his warm breath fanning across her skin, the vibrations of his words against her lips going straight to her lower belly, making it swoop.

He leans even closer so their lips meet, barely, just a featherlight touch. Clarke almost squirms underneath him, getting especially pissed when she watches that deliberate smirk form on his lips. He wants  _her_ to kiss  _him_.

She surges forward, connecting their mouths, hard, fingers digging into his shoulders, harder. Their teeth knock together at first, because she's too hasty and he apparently wants to get even closer, and they share a short, breathy laugh between the two of them. Then one of his hands slides out of her hair, down to her waist, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast and all laughter dissipates.

She trusts her tongue into his mouth, wet and sloppy, starting to pull him further into her room. Bellamy accidentally knocks them into one of her cabinets, and she struggles to touch him everywhere at once. They pause somewhere in the middle, her pushing down his jeans impatiently as he explores her neck with his mouth. Somehow, they end up on her bed in one piece, blood rushing in her ears, through her veins, heart pounding loudly against her ribcage in anticipation, fear, fondness, maybe a little bit of everything.

Bellamy sits up, straddling her hips but careful not to put all his weight on top of her as he takes her in, really takes her in as his fingers trail down the side of her face, down her collarbone, down her arm. She always knew he looked good, but fuck. He looks so fucking good, so thoroughly kissed, hair a mess of curls, it actually hurts a little.

She catches his hand once it reaches hers, once again intertwining their fingers and bringing them to her mouth, kissing the back of his softly. It takes her a second, to allow herself to take in all of it. The way he's looking at her with his brown eyes, so soft and fond, like he might break her if he's not careful, the weight of him on top of her, how much she wants him, how long she's wanted him now, but mostly the way she feels about him — the way it makes her feel strong enough to admit it. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and voice scratchy from dryness, she reminds him, "I'm pretty much in love with you, too, just in case you were wondering."

"I was," he admits, genuine, free hand pushing up the bottom of her tank top just enough so he can circle her belly button with his finger distractedly, until she slaps him away because she's too ticklish. "But it would've been fine either way." He pushes her shirt up further, leaning down to replace his finger with his mouth instead, placing soft butterfly kisses against the soft skin of her stomach and waist as he makes his way up her torso. "I would've waited."

It takes everything in her not to shiver at both his words and actions, choking on a sound of astonishment as he pushes the dark material of her tanktop even further up, mouth trailing up and kissing her everywhere  _but_  where she wants him to.

Finally, she gets too impatient with his soft and sweet ways, pushing him back a little so she can lean up enough to pull it over her head, breasts now bared to him as she lays back down, sliding her hands back up his chest.

"I was getting there, princess," he chuckles, warm and deep and erupting butterflies in her fucking stomach like she's 12 years old. The effect he has on her is really not fair. "But I mean,  _wow_."

"You're welcome," she teases, but soon enough he ducks his head back down to place a kiss in between the valley of her breast, making her choke on the middle of the sentence. She arches into him, gasping when he mouths at her breasts, and then harder, when his teeth are bare and digging into the soft, plump flesh.

Soon, she's writhing underneath him, whimpering his name as she frantically tries to guide his hand down her shorts. She needs some sort of release, some friction, or she might lose her mind. Finally, Bellamy obliges with a low chuckle against her breast, mumbling something about patience. She's hot against his palm, slick from arousal, gasping his name against his mouth with even the slightest of touches.

He reconnects their mouths, lips bruised red from kissing, and she tightens as he plungers one of his fingers knuckle-deep inside of her. She whimpers his name, and it's a lot more than she had five seconds ago and yet it's still not enough. More, she needs more.

"Please, I need — I need you," she whimpers against his mouth, moaning as he accepts her request, adding another finger, thumbing at her clit at the same time, shooting little shocks of pleasure up her spine.

His thick fingers start pumping in and out of her, Bellamy adjusting the tempo and depth according to the sounds she makes. She bears down on his fingers, breathing hard, writhing against his thumb desperately trying to get herself off. Suddenly her face twists in pleasure, peak overcoming her whole body like waves of electricity.

"Good?" He asks, quiet — when she manages to open her eyes, having had a minute to come back down — combing some damp hair away from her forehead with his free hand.

She smiles at him, lazy and fond, pulling him back down for another kiss, body now covered in a light sheen of sweat. More than good. Fucking fantastic. Clarke can barely form a coherent sound at the moment, though, so she settles on, "Good."

He rolls onto his side beside her as he pulls his hands from her shorts, her juices coating his fingers. Dumbstruck, she watches as he puts them into his mouth and sucks them clean, groaning deep in his chest. Fuck.

Suddenly she can't wait a second longer; lifting her hips to shuck off her shorts and underwear before dipping her hand beneath his boxers to fist his impressively-sized cock. His forehead falls against her shoulder, grunting against her skin as she strokes him, grabbing handfuls of her breasts, pinching and pulling at her nipples like she wasn't ready to go again just at the sight of his fingers slick with her cum, nevermind when he willingly put them into his mouth. It's like he already knows exactly what she likes and how she wants it.

Bellamy stops her hand, lifting his head so he can brush his lips against hers again, shaky gasp lost from her mouth to his when he shifts just enough for his cock to slide against her slit, making her jerk beneath him.

He rolls back on top of her completely, and she tries to wrap her arms around his shoulders, but he moves to hook his arms under her thighs, and she gasps as he pulls her further down on the bed so their hips line up. She kind of likes relinquishing her control over to him, letting him take charge. His fingers cover the top of her knees, pushing them apart, up towards her breasts.

One hand drags down the inside of her thigh, leaving a trail of warmth, until he cups her cunt in his hand. His fingertips trail up and down her slit, making her rasp out his name once again, chest heaving up and down erratically.

His hand leaves her mons, and she actually almost whines at the loss of touch, until she sees he's now holding his cock, feeling better at the prospect of what's coming.

"Condom?" He inquires, looking positively wrecked at the fact he didn't think of it earlier. Luckily she always comes prepared. She reaches over to her nightstand blindly, knocking over her alarm clock in the process of feeling around, only satisfied when she senses plastic under her fingers.

Bellamy makes quick work of ripping open the package and rolling the prophylactic around his shaft, and before she knows it, he notches the tip at her cunt, then pushes into her with a harsh snap of his hips.

Clarke cries out in surprise, but he doesn't exactly give her time to adjust. He fucks her hard and fast, hunching over her, her leg pushed up to her chest, taking her rough and unlike anyone else has before. Her nails dig into his back, creating crescent-shaped welts, she's sure, but it only makes him groan and push into her wetness harder, changing the angle enough to make her toes curl.

Soon enough, she's coming around him, thighs quivering beneath his, clenching and rippling around his cock. For a moment, she feels as if she's floating above her own body. His movements become messy, wrecked, and she knows he's close to his own release.

His cocks pulses inside her tight canal as he fills the condom, fingertips bruising her hips but she can only enjoy it. Take a little bit of pain with the pleasure, watching him come apart with a belly-deep groan.

She wraps her arms around his neck, rocking with him in small, encouraging movements before he collapses down on top of her. He buries his head in her neck, nearly wrapped around her. Once their breaths even out, he presses a soft, lazy kiss to her neck, then her collarbone, making her snort in amusement. Eventually, he drags his face back up to the side of her mouth with his lips as she watches him keenly, fingernails trailing down his bicep.

He presses his forehead to hers, both of their breaths hot between them. She reaches up to cup his face, lips grazing his in another kiss. She lets out a shaky laugh against his mouth, regretful. "I'm sorry, but I have to go pee. UTI's are a bitch."

Bellamy laughs, the sound warm and comforting and one of her favorite sounds in the world. "You love ruining a moment, don't you?"

"I said I was sorry," Clarke teases, going over into a hiss midway as he pulls his softening cock from her folds and pushes himself off her, supporting his weight with his elbow as he makes sure to hold on to the base of the condom as he slips it off, tying it off with a satiated sigh, "I have to get rid of this, anyway."

She pats his stomach mock-supportively, pushing herself up to sit on the side of the bed. She has to readjust for a moment, already feeling sore.

Clarke hears him move behind her, probably searching for the nearest trash can. "Hey. I expect you back within five minutes, you're not getting out of the cuddling."

She laughs on her way over to her bathroom, closing the door behind her. Once she finishes peeing and cleaning up a little, she washes her hands, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face is pink, lips curled up permanently in an annoyingly happy grin, lips bruised red from his unforgiving kisses, her hair a mess on top of her head. She's sure she'll have some bruises to accompany the whole look tomorrow.

Clarke pads back into her bedroom, air cold on her skin. He's already back in bed, and she quickly crawls under the covers beside him. Bellamy's arm immediately comes up around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest, and molding around her almost possessively while something warm blooms in her chest at his clinginess. He wasn't kidding about the cuddling.

"What are you offering for pillow talk?" She props her chin up on his chest so she can look at him, and his caressing fingers still on her back.

"Hmm," he wonders, squinting his eyes. "How about because you're the doctor and outrank me you can break it to Kane we're together?"

"Together, huh?"

"Yeah," he replies, instantly, back to trailing his finger down her spine. "There's really no room for argument here, princess."

Clarke bites down on her bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot, even though she's pretty sure she failed horrendously, tapping her nail on his sternum. "Were you thinking of Kane the entire time, or was he just the first thing you thought of after, because I'm not sure what's worse."

HR manager and stepdad, that's gonna be such a fun conversation. Haughtily, he smirks. "How about I'm  _always_  thinking about Kane?"

"Can we rewind back a bit to the part where you say I outrank you?" She pushes herself up a little, twisting in his arms so she can look down at him with a smug look on her face. "Because I thought the whole reason why we got off on the wrong foot was the fact I didn't treat you as an ' _equal_ ' but a ' _slave_ '? And that hierarchy in hospitals is outdated? That we both have our own fields of expertise that are crucial to proper patient c—"

Bellamy pulls her back down by her chin, lips grazing hers in a kiss that immediately calms her. Not that she was actually upset, but she's Clarke Griffin, she's always on edge about something. He strokes her hair off her face, trailing his fingertip over the shell of her ear, then presses another kiss to her temple. "So I guess it's going to be me breaking the news?"

Clarke snorts, shifting her head so its resting on the junction of his shoulder and neck, staring up at the ceiling as his fingers tangle into her knotted hair. It's quiet for a moment, giving her time to process the night's events.  _I would've waited._  She stifles a yawn, squeezing his waist. "I'm really glad you decided to say something."

"So predictable those doctors," he murmurs, cynicism at it's finest, "Always expecting the nurses to do all the work for them. Typical."

She feels herself drift off under his gentle ministrations on her scalp, grinning lazily against his skin. "I like it when you do the work."

He huffs, a humoured sound from the back of his throat. "I should miss my train more often. I could get in some overhours at your place."

"As long as it leaves you with enough time to be my personal escort, I'm game."

"Always. Walking you home is the favorite part of my day."

/.\

**Author's Note:**

> hmu [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) or [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru) if you want to yell at me, prompt me or discuss why bob's hand naturally gravitates towards eliza's lower back like MY health doesn't matter all of a sudden


End file.
